


live a little

by andreaphobia



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, First Time, M/M, Makoto in a whole lotta denial, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Phone Sex, Romance isn't dead, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: For years, Makoto has dated a string of girls, quite unsuccessfully. Kisumi just wants him to give himself a chance.That chance comes in the form of the number for a phone sex hotline: 1-800-TWINKS-4-HUNKS.





	live a little

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses. Just—none whatsoever.

 

 

Romance, Makoto thinks, is really quite overrated.

He would know, too. After a string of failed relationships as well as twenty-eight unsuccessful first dates, he’s come around to the point of view that love is probably an illusion. It has to be, because otherwise he’d have found it by now, surely. Even if it’s just by the law of large numbers. Online dating made things easier, and they had all seemed so good on paper, but—the spark was never there. Given the data on hand, Makoto has reached the point where he’s just about ready to conclude the spark did not exist.

Which is why when Kisumi’s text arrives on Monday afternoon, he almost turns him down flat.

 _Heard you were in town,_ it reads—conveniently leaving out any mention of the witchcraft he must’ve used to learn that information in the first place. _Let’s catch up over drinks?_

The last thing Makoto wants to spend the night doing, it must be said, is being grilled about his love life. So it is very disappointing that he finds himself, later that evening, at Kisumi’s favorite bar, nursing a cold one while Kisumi sends him sidelong glances over a fruity cocktail.

“So. How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?”

One of Makoto’s eyebrows twitches, but only just. The smile never leaves his face.

“What am I doing to myself?”

He fixes his gaze on the condensation which trickles down the side of his bottle to pool over his fingers, keeping it far removed from any knowing looks or catlike smiles. On the barstool next to him, Kisumi leans back with a breezy little sigh, swirling his drink around in its glass. When he laughs next, it’s incredibly grating, like the tinkling of a tiny bell.

“You know what I mean, Makoto, don’t play dumb. What about—” Kisumi frowns for a moment, lost in recall. “What was her name again? Ayaka-chan?”

Makoto tries not to grimace.

“Ayumu.”

“That’s the one,” Kisumi says, with a gratified smile. “How are things going with her?”

Makoto takes a little while to answer this, because all of a sudden he decides that now is a fantastic time to drink. He tips his bottle back and swallows, and swallows again, and when it lands back on the bartop with a glassy _clunk_ it’s significantly lighter than before. The taste lingers in the back of his throat; he savors it briefly, rocking the bottle back and forth on its coaster to watch the water stain it causes spread web-like across the paper. Kisumi is still watching him, so when he finally speaks, he makes sure to keep his voice light, like it hardly matters to him at all.

“We, uh, broke up. Couple of weeks ago.”

Kisumi raises his eyebrows. “Couldn’t get it up again, huh?”

Makoto promptly chokes.

“ _Kisumi—!_ ”

Obligingly, Kisumi thumps him a few times on the back until he manages to clear his airways. Eyes watering, Makoto coughs into a napkin, and then glares at Kisumi with all the force he can muster—which, it has to be said, isn’t much at all.

“No need to sound so scandalized.” Kisumi steeples his fingers, then smiles pleasantly over them. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes you’re just not compatible in bed. _Sometimes_ ,” he continues, meaningfully, “sometimes you date eight girls in a row and acquire a reputation as a serial heartbreaker, and you don’t even manage to sleep with a single one of them. You know what they call someone who keeps doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?”

Makoto attempts a grin. “Persistent?”

The smile that Kisumi favors him with could wither a cactus, and Makoto decides to keep any other smart answers to himself. In the meantime he takes another long drink. Kisumi watches him do so, and sighs.

“I know you think it’s none of my business, but you’re my friend. I want you to be happy. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Makoto mumbles, looking at the crescent-shaped water stain on his coaster again. “But I _am_ happy.”

This is not even, strictly speaking, a lie; Makoto likes his job, and he has friends—multiple of them, even—to speak of.

It’s just that he’s lived life for long enough to know that you don’t always get everything you want. That sometimes, sacrifices are necessary.

(And sometimes the thing you sacrifice is authenticity, and sometimes the sphere you sacrifice it in is romance—but who’s keeping track, really?)

Kisumi sighs again, and finishes off his cosmopolitan. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a little piece of paper.

He holds it out. Makoto hesitates, then dries his fingertips off on the napkin and takes it.

“Just give yourself a chance, Makoto. How many years have I known you?”

Makoto thinks for a moment. “Fifteen?” he hazards. “Sixteen?”

“Something like that. Don’t you think I know you by now?”

“Better than I know myself?”

“Maybe.” Kisumi smiles, small and a little sad. “You’re going to be thirty soon, you know. Live a little, won’t you?”

Makoto is mildly insulted by this. “I’m living. I’m alive.”

Kisumi does not bother to reply. In the silence that ensues, Makoto looks down, turning the little piece of paper over in his hands. It’s about the size of a business card, but isn’t marked as such. The only thing on it is a phone number, handwritten with a red ballpoint pen: _1-800-TWX-4-HNX_.

He taps the number with his index finger, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is this what I think it is?”

Kisumi shrugs. His expression is sly. “Why not call it tonight and find out?”

Makoto tries not to sputter, but it’s not easy—old habits die hard, after all. “I’m not—I’m not _desperate_ , Kisumi, I don’t need to p-p-pay for—”

“ _Makoto_.” Kisumi presses a finger to Makoto’s lips, which immediately shuts him up, with the added bonus of making his face glow like the setting sun. “I’m not giving you that number because I think you’re desperate. I just want you to try it, okay?” His voice is soft, soothing, and oh-so-convincing. “Do it for me? Your old friend, Kisumi?”

Makoto pushes his hand away, swallowing with a throat that has suddenly gone dry. There are a zillion reasons why this is a terrible idea, starting with the fact that he’s probably going to get his credit card number stolen.

On the other hand, continuing the argue about it seems far more onerous than agreeing, because Kisumi doesn’t give up easily, and Makoto’s already given up.

He scrunches up his face for a moment, his internal struggle warring across it, and then, with finality, slips the card into his pocket. The backs of his ears burn.

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbles.

Kisumi gives him an angelic smile.

 

 

 

Back in his hotel room, Makoto shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up in the closet, then undoes his tie, looping it over the back of a chair. He stands for a moment by the bed, rigid as a rail, then falls face-first onto the bed and lies there for several minutes, playing dead. The little business card is burning a hole in his pocket and he’s got half a mind to get up and put it right into the trash.

Fortunately for it, the trash is already full of wreckage of the convenience-store meal that was his dinner, and getting up seems like way too much effort right now, anyway.

He rolls over with a grunt, flinging out an arm to try to locate the TV remote, and nearly knocks the lamp off the bedside table in the process. When he finds it he turns the TV on and flips through the channels for a bit, watching a couple of infomercials before turning it off again.

The card is still in his pocket. Makoto gets up and paces back and forth, from the window on the far side of the room to the front door; it’s a very tiny room, so this doesn’t take much time at all. He peers out through the peephole as though expecting someone to be there, then flops down onto the bed again hopelessly.

He pulls the card out of his pocket and looks at it. The little red number, _1-800-TWX-4-HNX_ , winks up at him.

(Makoto has a guess or two as to what that is supposed to be short for, and finds all of the possibilities deeply distressing.)

After a good minute of staring at the card, lost in thought, he decides to pull out his phone. He dials the number and puts it to his ear. After two rings, the call is automatically picked up.

“ _Hey there, handsome,_ ” a sultry male voice purrs. “ _Thank you for calling 1-800-TWINKS-FOR-HUNKS—_ ”

Makoto immediately hangs up, and flings the phone away from him across the bed, like it is made of spiders. His heart rate has spiked so quickly that he feels dizzy, and his toes are suddenly very warm, almost itchy. He peels off his socks and tosses them off the bed, in the general direction of wherever he left his shoes.

Unsympathetic to his struggles, the _CALL ENDED_ notice continues to flash on his phone’s screen. He lies back on the bed and stares at the stucco on the ceiling for a heavy minute, until his ears don’t feel quite so hot.

Then he sits up again, reaches for his phone, and redials the number. The same prerecorded message starts to play.

“ _Hey there, handsome_. _Thank you for calling 1-800-TWINKS-FOR-HUNKS. We’ve got twinks out there just waiting for your call—your first two minutes are on us. To get started, please enter your credit card number followed by the pound sign._ ”

His first attempt to follow these instructions is unsuccessful, largely because he tries to do it with his eyes screwed tightly shut, as though this might somehow protect his personal information—maybe identity thieves don’t have object permanence, or something. On his second attempt he forces himself to do it with eyes open, but it takes a good fifteen seconds more before he can convince himself to press the pound key and finish the job.

He puts the phone back to his ear. There’s a digital-sounding _click_ like something is connecting, and then the ringing starts. Makoto closes his eyes and lies back against the wall, anxiety crawling up in his throat. The rings seem to go on and on forever and he is two seconds away from hanging up for the last time when someone finally picks up.

The voice on the other end of the line is quiet, but hearing it still makes him sit bolt upright. “ _Hi_.”

“H—h-hi,” Makoto stammers, probably—almost certainly—sounding like a complete moron. “Um. Hi. Yes.”   

There is a brief pause, and then the voice continues as though Makoto hadn’t said anything. It sounds slightly monotonous, as though its owner is reading from a script.

“ _Haruka. Twenty-five. Black hair, blue eyes. 177cm. 63kg. Five-and-a-quarter inches_.”

Makoto blinks slowly. Whatever he’d been expecting when he called the number, it certainly wasn’t this. The silence stretches on for several long seconds before the caller—‘Haruka’—clears his throat, expectantly.

“ _Your turn_.”

“What? Oh! Um...” Makoto has to struggle to recall the itemized list he’s just heard; he feels rather as though he’s having an out-of-body experience. “Um. I’m Makoto. I’m... 28? Yeah. I have, um, brown hair and green eyes. 184cm tall. Uh...” Weight? He tries to remember the last time he weighed himself. It was probably at his company physical last year, but he can’t really remember the details. “A little over 70 kilos. I can’t remember. And... um...”

He comes to a halt, remembering the calm voice saying _Five-and-a-quarter inches_ , in a tone so blasé that he might have been discussing the weather. He has never _actually_ had his head catch fire before, but he can imagine that it might feel similar to how he feels at that particular moment.

“ _And_?” The voice prompts him curtly, not even remotely helpful. Makoto gathers up the scattered fragments of his courage.

“S-s-s—si—s-s-s—”

“ _Six?_ ”

“Andahalf,” he finally manages to choke out.

On the other end of the line, Haruka—if that is actually his name, which Makoto supposes it probably isn’t—makes a kind of thoughtful-sounding noise. Makoto has no idea what it is supposed to mean, and he’s freaking out too hard to be able to ask. His fingers are starting to hurt; he forces his hand to relax its grip on his phone before he crushes it.

“ _Okay. What do you want to do, then? Makoto._ ”

The sound of his name in this stranger’s mouth, low and peculiarly intimate, sends a little frisson of excitement through him. He’s never heard his name said by a man like that before—and certainly not like _this_ , sitting on a bed in some hotel room in Kyoto, still mostly dressed in his work clothes, cradling a phone furtively to his ear. He gnaws at his lower lip, beginning to feel slightly dazed.

“What do I...?”

There is a hint of impatience in Haruka’s voice, not very well masked by its sensuous tones.

“ _We can roleplay. Or just talk dirty. Whatever you want_.”

Makoto’s head hurts. What _does_ he want? In the first place, when he dialed the number, all he wanted was to be able to say that he gave it a shot and it didn’t work out so that Kisumi would get off his back. And if that were still the case, he could just hang up now and all he’d lose is what little dignity he has left. He could just hang up now...

His finger hovers over the end call button.

On the other end of the line, Haruka clears his throat again softly.

Slowly—dreamily, like he’s only just woken up—Makoto puts the phone back to his ear. When he speaks, he doesn’t even recognize his own voice; it seems to come from far away, through a fog, as though someone else has temporarily possessed his body and is calling all the shots.   

“Pretend like we’re best friends, like... we’ve known each other for a long time. And that...” His voice goes a little husky, “...that you really want me.”

Silence. Makoto gulps, and kneads at the inside of his thigh reflexively, waiting for an answer.

“ _...Okay_ ,” says the voice, at long last. “ _You should call me ‘Haru’, then._ ”

 _Haru_. Makoto nods, then remembers that Haruka—Haru—can’t see him. “Sure. I can do that.”

The voice goes silent again for a moment. Then there’s a quiet little sigh, like you might hear at the end of a long day; the good kind, the kind that bleeds all the tension out of you. Makoto likes the way it sounds.

“ _Hey_ ,” Haru begins, like he’s only just picked up the call.

“U-um.” Makoto tries not to focus on how much he sucks at this. (It’s really, really difficult.) “Hey.” He suddenly realizes he’s started squeezing his thigh hard enough to hurt; he forces himself to let go, moving his hand to the sheets instead to start balling them up compulsively.

A few more quiet breaths divide Makoto’s last words and what Haru says next.

“ _...I’ve missed you._ ”

“Yeah,” Makoto breathes, “me too.”

He is strongly aware that this cannot be the most stimulating conversation Haru has had all day, but he’s finding it incredibly stimulating himself, in several other ways. The voice pressed to his ear is so private, so incredibly intimate, like the murmur of a lover against the side of his head, and for a moment he can almost imagine it—the Haru who owns the voice, lying next to him on the bed with his dark hair fanned out across the pillow, his body not soft with curves like a woman’s, but lean and angular, hard in just the right places...

Maybe he should’ve asked for a picture, Makoto thinks—and then laughs out loud, because now he knows that he’s really losing it. (Not that that’s a surprise, anyway; the first clue was the fact that he’d even called the number in the first place.)

“ _What’s funny?_ ”

“Nothing. I was just thinking—” Makoto breaks off abruptly, pressing the phone a little harder to his ear, as though that were even possible. There are sounds coming from the other end, from Haru—and how _can_ they be this loud, over the phone?—it sounds, to Makoto, an awful lot like a belt being undone, slipped free of its belt loops, to be followed by the repetitive, metallic _click-click-click_ of a zipper being tugged down.

Makoto’s throat works soundlessly.

“Haru,” he croaks. “Are you—?”

“ _I told you_ ,” the voice says, quiet and a little petulant. “ _I_ miss _you_.”

Oh. _Oh_. Makoto’s head is spinning; he flattens a hand against the side of his face, fingernails digging into his cheek. The pain is sharp, but not quite enough to ground himself. It’s too much, too fast—but then again, what’s the point of waiting? He feels adrift, all at sea, like he can’t even remember where he is. He’s certain he must have been sitting on a bed in a crappy business hotel, but all of a sudden he feels sixteen again, alone in his room after class and so, _so_ very lonely, and all he’s got for company is images of his classmates, laughing and joking as they change in the locker room after gym—the sweat that runs down their necks and shoulders and bare backs gleams under the glare of the cheap strip lights, all these lurid visions of them burned into the backs of his eyelids—

Makoto reaches down and presses one unsteady hand between his legs, over his pants, and lets out a soft hiss of breath. They’ve barely even started and he’s already hard, aching for it.

“Then—would you mind if I—?”

“ _Hurry up_.” Haru’s voice is soft but commanding, and before even realizing it Makoto finds himself moving to obey. He undoes his belt and tosses it... wherever, then shucks his pants halfway down his hips in one brusque movement. He keeps his boxers on for the moment; just traces the outline of himself through the cloth with his fingertips, teasing all the way around the length. A tiny wet stain has appeared on the fabric right around where the tip is. It draws his gaze as though by magnetism and he stares at it, nervously wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Feels good, Haru,” he murmurs. “I want—I wish you were here.”

More sounds emanate from the earpiece, and he shuts up to listen to them: the rustling of fabric, a creaking that could be someone sliding around on a mattress. And then, after a brief pause—the soft, exquisite sound of skin sliding slowly over flesh.

Makoto’s mind goes white.

A whisper in his ear. “ _Tell me what you’d do to me, if I was there_.”

“I...” It’s hard to think with a blank head, but Makoto tries anyway. He licks his lips again, eyes half-shut and wholly unseeing, struggling to probe his own desires. “I’d... I guess I’d want to look at you... For a while.”

The sounds of Haru touching himself come to an abrupt halt.

“ _...You just want to look?_ ”

“Just to start with!” He protests—and then laughs, because does he even have to justify himself to this guy? But somehow, it’s easier when he pretends; things are easier if Haru really is a friend, his _best_ friend, and not just some stranger whispering in his ear. If he can let himself believe—

For a long, arduous moment, he strains, and then the muscles in his face relax one by one into a smile that feels almost natural.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, you know? I’ve really... really missed you.” He laughs again, a little self-conscious. “And then I—I guess I’d kiss you... if you’d let me.”

There’s another short pause, and if Makoto didn’t know better, he’d have thought that Haru seemed confused; like he didn’t know what to do with what he’d just heard.

Which doesn’t make sense to Makoto, because surely someone who worked for an operation called 1-800-TWINKS-4-HUNKS would’ve heard everything under the sun. Even, for example, ‘guy who’s never had a real same-sex sexual experience and only called the hotline under duress’. (He figures there’s gotta be someone out there with a kink like that.)

As the silence stretches on, Makoto swallows, and then asks—more hesitantly now, wondering if he’s perhaps crossed some invisible line, “...May I?”

There’s a gentle hiss of breath.

“... _yeah. Of course_.”

Makoto bites his lip as another throb of arousal pulses through him. The image of kissing the man who owns the voice on the other end of the line might not seem like very much, but... yeah, that does it for him. His hands shake slightly as he slips thumbs beneath the stretchy waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his hips and letting his erection spring free. It falls back onto his belly with a small, pearly droplet of precum beading at the tip, and leaves a sticky blot on his shirt that he hurriedly smoothes away with his thumb before it stains.

With his free hand, he awkwardly undoes the bottom few buttons on his shirt, then lays the flaps of the shirt further open to bare his belly, so his prick has somewhere to rest that isn’t something he’s going to have to wear on the train tomorrow. Then he shifts around, spreading his legs wider, and adjusts the pillow behind his back.

He apparently takes so long getting comfortable that Haru has reason to wonder why he’s up to, because he soon asks, “ _Are you... doing it, yet?_ ”

Makoto pauses with his hand resting on his inner thigh, fingers twitching slightly.

“I’m... about to. I’ve never...” He breathes out slowly, humiliation closing up his throat. “Never done this before. So I’m kinda... nervous.”

“... _You’ve never jerked off before?_ ”

“No!” Makoto laughs. “I mean—of course I’ve done that. But never—um—” He searches for a concise explanation, fails utterly, and settles for vague. “—never like _this_.”  

“. _..I do it all the time. And I think about you when I’m doing it_.”

A shameful thrill floods Makoto’s nerves with excitement, and his cock gives an eager little jump. Gnawing on his lower lip, he begins to curl his fingers around his length—one by one, starting with the index finger near the head, until all of them are wrapped neatly around the shaft, cradling it against his palm. It’s warm, a little rough; it’d be nice if he had some lotion, he thinks, but now isn’t exactly the time for him to get up and go to the bathroom to see if there is any.

“W-what.” His voice cracks from a dry throat; he swallows to wet it, then starts to move his hand, achingly slow—squeezing gently to milk himself all the way to the tip, then back down to the base, relishing the feeling of loose skin sliding under his grip. “What do you think about doing to me...?”

“ _Kneeling in front of you and sucking you off_.” Haru’s voice is quiet, but utterly without shame. “ _Letting you pull my hair while you fuck my face. Would you like to do that, Makoto?_ ”

Oh, _shit_. Sparks fly and Makoto thinks he might actually be at risk of shooting off right away; he grips the base of his cock hastily, squeezing painfully tight to try and blunt the razor-sharp edge of pleasure. That’s... about a thousand steps further along than kissing, and he wasn’t even slightly prepared.

He tilts his head to hold the phone between shoulder and ear so he can press that hand over his eyes. With how hard his face is burning, he feels like steam might be pouring out of his ears.

“H-Haru, that’s—a lot,” he mumbles, hoarsely. “I don’t want to hurt you. I... I want to make you feel good.”

“ _...I don’t understand._ ”

For a few seconds, Makoto’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly as he plumbs the depth of his (currently not very useful) brain for some kind of explanation. _Isn’t it obvious?_ he wonders. _Making you feel good makes me feel good_.

But there’s no way the words would come out right; even in his head they sound trite, more like a platitude than something that a person might actually believe. He breathes out between his teeth, nice and easy, waiting long enough that he starts to come down from that precipice. In the meantime, he leaves his hand resting on his knee, over the wrinkled pile of his trousers, trying to decide what to do.

Maybe showing is easier than telling. (And maybe that’s easier said than done.) He’s never done this before; has very little idea of where to start, but if there’s one word of praise his previous romantic entanglements have had for him, it’s that he’s a _very_ attentive partner.

“What do you like, Haru?”

“ _You._ ”

The answer comes back far too quickly, and Makoto nearly chokes again. Yeah, it’s all part of the role he’s playing, but that doesn’t automatically make Makoto immune to his charms.

“I don't mean like _that_ , I meant... what would you like me to do to you?” He casts a wide net, reeling in the first thing that comes to mind. “How about kissing? Do you like that?*

“... _It's good._ ” Haru sounds a little dubious, like he’s not quite sure where this road leads. Makoto chuckles. Well, it’s a start.

“Okay,” and Makoto finally curls his fingers around his prick again, getting ready. “Just... imagine we’re going to kiss, then.” He closes his eyes to do so, trying to craft the picture in his mind so he can describe it. “I’m holding myself up over you... I’ll keep most of my weight off, though, so I don’t crush you.” A small, subconscious smile. “I like that you’re smaller than me, because it means I can cover your whole body with mine. It’s... nice... I like feeling you against me, from head to toe.” Slightly nervous, he pauses. “Does that... sound okay?”

“... _yeah._ ”

Makoto is strangely pleased to hear the soft, wet sounds have picked up again, as well as Haru’s little pants of breath against the receiver; it gives him the courage to keep going. He starts to move his own wrist to fist himself, nice and slow, and the friction makes his toes curl with satisfaction. He lets out a soft, throaty moan, then continues to speak.

“I love being over you like this, Haru... it lets me press you down into the bed, grind into you a little. I like all the little sounds you make when we’re moving together... wish I could make a recording on my phone and listen to it when I get lonely—”

“ _Don’t_.” Haru’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Haha, I won’t! The real thing’s much better, anyway.” Smiling though no one can see him, Makoto swipes his thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing the fluid down to lubricate his grip. “ _God_ , you look so good, Haru... your mouth’s so sexy... sometimes I have to stop kissing you just so I can look at you. I love watching your face when you get close...”

Haru makes a sound, close to a whimper; the sounds coming from the other end are almost frantic, now. “ _Don’t just_ watch.”

“You’re right.” Makoto imagines the slick, desperate movements of Haru’s hand over the shaft of his prick, the little twitches it makes in time with his pulse, and rocks into his own fist with need. His voice has gone throaty and harsh. “I don’t want you to come while I’m just watching you, that’s not good enough for you. When you get close, I want to pull down what you’re wearing and put you in my mouth, so you can come there, instead. I want to taste you so bad, Haru, I don’t care if it’s bitter... I want your cum on my tongue, and then I want to kiss you again so you can taste yourself, too...”

“ _Ma—koto_.” Haru’s voice is ragged, now, a quiet hiccup breaking Makoto’s name into two separate words. Makoto chews his lower lip, working his wrist faster still. He’s close once again, and listening to Haru’s desperate pants into the receiver is just the icing on top.

Makoto stops talking, then, focusing his entire being on the curl of his own fingers around him, and the noises that Haru makes with his breath caught in his throat. It only takes a few more strokes after that before his orgasm hits him, out of the blue and far too soon; his whole body goes rigid as it wrings through him, brutally, and he cries out with the force of it. Too late, he realizes he doesn’t have any tissues at hand, and can only watch helplessly through half-lidded eyes as his jizz lands all over the sheets.

All the same, his hand never stops moving for a moment. He jerks himself through it all the way, until the waves of pleasure finally recede, leaving him unanchored somewhere in a haze of pleasant warmth. He milks the last few drops from himself with a shaky hand, and then collapses back against the pillow, the rise and fall of his chest ragged.

Against his ear, he hears Haru make a sound like a sigh as the wet flesh-slapping sounds speed up briefly, before tapering off, and feels weirdly satisfied with himself.

Silence settles over them for a good half a minute or so. Nothing passes over the line but the sounds of their breathing, returning to normal in stages. Makoto stares up at the ceiling, which looks different in a post-orgasmic glow, no longer quite so bare and depressing.

He hasn’t come so hard in years.

When Haru finally speaks, it’s in a voice that sounds utterly wrung out.

“ _...Was that good for you?_ ”

Smiling wryly to himself, Makoto holds up his hands and looks at them. The cum on them is already starting to get tacky and gross. (He’s not looking forward to trying to launder the sheets, either, although he will as a matter of courtesy—he doesn’t want anyone else to have to deal with his embarrassing lack of foresight.)

“It was... amazing, Haru. Thank you.” He pauses, again uncertain if he should even ask; for some reason, he feels like he’s crossed a lot of lines tonight. Then again, Haru was probably faking, anyway.

Right?

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “Was it... good for you, too?”

Several beats pass, long enough that Makoto starts to sweat. And then—

“ _...yeah_.”

Makoto’s smile is so wide, it almost hurts.

“I’m glad, Haru. I wanted to make you feel good.”

More silence. Distantly, Makoto wonders what’s supposed to happen now. Do they say goodbye? Should he just hang up? Neither of those options feel right. That he wants this to happen again, he’s sure of. But how can he make that happen?

“Hey—” he starts to say, just as Haru interrupts.

“ _Call me_ ,” Haru says.

“Huh?”

A soft, irritable noise. “ _Call me. Off this line. I’ll give you my number_.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, a little defiantly, “ _Unless you don’t want it_.”

Makoto has never wanted anything more in his life. “No! I do, I definitely do! Here, I’ll just—um—crap. Give me a second to wash my hands and then I’ll write it down.”

He scrambles to the bathroom, nearly dropping his phone in the sink, and washes his hands. Then he dashes back outside, locating the hotel-branded cheap ballpoint pen and notepad on the desk.

“O- okay,” he says, pressing the phone between ear and shoulder so he can free a hand to hold the notepad steady. “I’m ready.”

Haru reels a number off into his ear. Makoto jots it down, and then stares at it, repeating the digits over and over in his mind as though they’ll vanish into thin air if he doesn’t imprint them into his memory.

On the other end, Haru clears his throat.

“ _You should probably hang up. You’re still getting charged_.”

Makoto blinks. He had, up until this moment, forgotten about that completely.

“Crap, you’re right. Um... but...” He puts his face in his now-clean hands, barely daring to hope. “Can I... call you? Right now?”

Haru snorts, softly.

“ _You’d better._ ”

With shaking fingers, Makoto ends the call, then dials the new number and puts the phone back to his ear. It isn’t long before someone picks up.

“ _Hi_.”

The same voice.

Makoto’s cheeks ache from smiling.

“Hi again. Haruka.”

“ _Haru_.”

“Haru. Sorry.” He laughs. “So that was your real name, huh? I didn’t really expect that. Nice to meet you. I’m Makoto.”

“ _I know. Tell me something I don’t_.”

“So not six-and-a-half inches, then?”

“ _No. Not that_.”

“Your voice makes me hard.” He’s paying attention, so he catches Haru’s soft, sharp intake of breath, and can’t help but grin. “But maybe you already knew that, too.”

“ _...Maybe I did_.”

Makoto folds his free hand into a fist, then presses the knuckles of it against his closed eyes until bright starbursts appear behind his lids. Something stings inside his chest, like a mouthful of liquor swallowed too quickly.

He takes a deep breath, then says in a rush,

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, if you’ll have dinner with me.”

“ _Can we go somewhere with mackerel?_ ”

That is... an oddly specific request, Makoto thinks, but he doesn’t mind. “Anything you want. Are you in Tokyo?”

“ _...Yeah_.”

Makoto hastily flips through his mental calendar. He’s stuck in Kyoto until Wednesday, and then there’s that meeting with the contractors...

“I’ll make a reservation for Friday night?” he says hopefully.

In the silence that ensues, his stomach does several unhelpful loop-de-loops, like it’s trying to revisit his convenience store dinner. And then—

“ _...Sure_.”

Makoto does manage to resist the urge to pump a fist in the air—but only just.

“It’s a date, then.”

And damn it all if Kisumi isn’t going to say ‘I told you so’ and lord this over him forever... but if he finds that spark he’s been looking for, it will all have been worth it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This idea seized me last week and refused to let me go.
> 
> I don't even know what or why this is. It wished to exist, so now it does. Sometimes these things have a mind of their own.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://andreaphobia.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/andreaphobia).


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